Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 4)

by Anna Zaires

  “So you’re not mad?” I ask breathlessly, stepping in front of him to block the doorway. “That I asked you?”

  His lips twist. “Mad? No, ptichka. Why would I be?”

  “Well, because you’re innocent, and I pretty much accused you. I really am sorry; I shouldn’t have even considered that—”

  “Why shouldn’t you have?” He cocks his head. “It wouldn’t have been the worst thing I’ve done.”

  My stomach tightens. “I know, but—”

  “It was a logical assumption on your part. A sophisticated explosive, a difficult target, and a motive on my end. In fact, I’m surprised you believe me.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s mocking me with that last bit, but I deserve it. “What can I do to make up to you?” I ask instead of apologizing again. “How can I make this better?”

  His eyebrows rise, and his eyes gleam with sudden interest. “What did you have in mind?”

  My pulse picks up, and a warm flush covers my body as he gives me a decidedly heated once-over. Sex wasn’t what I had in mind, but if that’s what he wants, I’m more than happy to oblige.

  “This,” I murmur, and holding his gaze, I begin to strip.

  26

  Peter

  After we make love, Sara falls asleep in the guestroom, and I leave her there to nap. I did my best to be gentle during sex, but I must’ve worn her out regardless.

  Either that, or she just needs the extra rest and I have to be more diligent in making sure she takes it easy over the next eight months.

  The anxiety-tinged joy fills my chest again, crowding out the remnants of hurt. It doesn’t make sense to be upset at Sara’s question; if anything, I should be glad she trusts me enough to ask me outright instead of letting such suspicions fester.

  I also can’t blame her for having the suspicions in the first place. I would’ve never done something as blatant and showy as blowing up the FBI building, but I have been quietly planning to eliminate Ryson—who had continued to sniff around after I made my conditional promise to Sara.

  If he’d left us alone, he would’ve been safe, but he hadn’t—and I felt perfectly justified in what I was going to do to him.

  Will still do to him if he survives.

  My unease intensifies again, but this time, the worry is more concrete. I don’t believe in coincidences, and all of this feels too coincidental. I didn’t tell Sara this, but I have already located a list of the dead and injured, and Ryson is among them, having been taken to the hospital in a critical condition.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone did me a favor.

  After a half hour, I check on Sara. She’s still sleeping, so I make my way back to the guestroom closet and take out a few weapons. I stash them strategically throughout the house and carry a few down to the garage, where I hide them in a special compartment in our bulletproof car.

  Just in case.

  Paranoia appeased, I open my laptop and begin answering emails from my trainees as I wait for my ptichka to wake up.

  “Oh, my God,” Sara says the next morning, her gaze glued to the TV. “Peter, Ryson was there. They’ve just identified the victims of the explosion, and he’s listed as being in a critical condition. Can you believe that?”

  I nod noncommittally. “I heard about that earlier. That’s really unfortunate for him.”

  According to my sources, he’s got third- and fourth-degree burns over most of his body. I almost feel bad for the fucker. I would’ve taken him out in a much more humane manner—most likely via a drug-induced heart attack, so it would look like he died from natural causes.

  “What a terrible tragedy,” Sara says, her gaze still locked on the screen. “I hope he recovers.”

  “Hmm-mm.” There’s no need to upset her by disagreeing. “Do you want anything to eat, or do you still feel nauseated, my love?” All she’s had so far this morning is a piece of dry toast, though I’ve made her favorite omelet and pancakes.

  She turns toward me. “I’m good for now, thank you. The nausea is almost gone, but I think I’ll just eat at my parents’ while you do your thing with Dad’s receiver.”

  “Okay, sure. Ready to go then?”

  She stands up and comes over. “Yep. Let’s go.”

  I take a different route to my in-laws’ house and make sure that my guys sweep the area ahead of our arrival. The hackers are still investigating the explosion, but my danger meter is pinging nonstop.

  Maybe Sara and I should get out of town, go on our honeymoon now, instead of around the holidays as originally planned.

  It could be an early babymoon, or whatever those things are called.

  Sara’s parents greet us warmly, and her mom goes into her usual hostess mode, offering us tea, crackers, fruit, and everything else under the sun. I politely decline—I had a big breakfast—but Sara goes to town on her mom’s offerings while I set up Chuck’s new receiver.

  “You need to plug that in here,” he says, pointing at the audio wire, and I nod, thanking him as though I didn’t already know that.

  Sara’s dad needs this to be a team project, and I’m happy to oblige.

  I’m almost done testing the surround sound when the phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glance at the screen—and ice invades my veins.

  SWAT on the way, a text from my crew states. Three minutes out.

  27

  Sara

  I hear it right before Peter bursts into the kitchen, where Mom and I are discussing potential nursery themes.

  The unmistakable roar of helicopter blades.

  “Let’s go.” He picks me before I can blink. “Excuse us,” he says to my stunned mother, and holding me tightly against his chest, he steps around her, striding for the door.

  I grip his shirt spasmodically. “Peter, what—”

  “No time.” He yanks open the door and backs out, holding me—only to freeze in place as a huge vehicle screeches onto our street and figures in SWAT gear pour out, face shields down and assault rifles aimed at us.

  My brain feels like it’s suddenly turned to sludge.

  I can’t process this.

  Can’t even begin to.

  Slowly and very deliberately, Peter lowers me to my feet and steps in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Don’t shoot.” His tone is oddly calm as he raises his hands above his head. “There’s no need for violence. I’ll come with you.”

  My tongue somehow untangles itself. “Wait!” I lurch forward on unsteady legs. “There was a deal. You can’t—”

  “Back up, ma’am!” the front-most agent barks, and I freeze as several weapons swing in my direction.

  “I said there’s no need for this.” Peter’s voice sharpens as he steps up, putting me behind him again. “I’m not resisting. Nobody has to get hurt, you understand?”

  “What’s going on here?” Dad demands from behind me, and I realize to my horror that my parents came out of the house.

  “Get back in.” My voice shakes as I risk a glance behind me. “Dad, please get Mom back in.”

  The chopper is now almost directly overhead, its roar drowning out my words.

  “On your knees!” someone shouts, and I look back to see my husband obeying, his movements as slow and deliberate as before.

  He doesn’t want to make them nervous, I realize with nauseating panic.

  They know what he’s capable of, and even though he’s unarmed, they’re terrified to be confronting him. He edges toward Peter with handcuffs as his colleagues hold their assault rifles pointed at my husband’s face. “You have the right to—”

  His helmet explodes before he gets the next word out.

  28

  Peter

  I’m moving before I fully register the crack of the sniper’s rifle.

  It’s instinctive, purely automatic.

  I have only one agenda.

  Survive long enough to protect Sara and the baby.

  As always in such situations, my thoughts are clear an
d sharp.

  Sniper at five o’clock. Identity unknown.

  One agent dead. The rest about to open fire.

  Nine opponents in front of me.

  Sara and her parents behind me.

  I seize the M16 from the agent whose brains I’m wearing, and throw myself sideways as I spray his colleagues with bullets, aiming at where I know the gaps in their armor to be.

  I need to draw their fire away from Sara, to have them focus on me as the sole threat.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sara’s parents dragging her inside the house. She’s screaming something, but it’s impossible to hear over the helicopter noise and the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire.

  The ground next to me explodes with bullets, but I keep moving, keep squeezing the trigger. Their armor protects them, but it also slows them down, buying me precious seconds. Even when I don’t kill them, my bullets knock them down and out.

  Five enemies left now.

  All the weapons I prepared are in our car, with only a small revolver strapped to my leg, so when my borrowed gun clicks empty, I throw it aside and dive behind two fallen agents, grabbing one’s weapon on the way.

  Fire punches at my left arm, but I ignore it.

  I can still hold the gun, so the wound can’t be that bad.

  The SWAT vehicle is now just a dozen feet away, so I throw myself toward it, both for cover and because that’s as far from the house as I can manage. As I hit the ground, I squeeze off another few rounds and get lucky with my angle, catching two agents underneath their face shields.

  Fire bites at my right calf, but the adrenaline keeps me moving.

  More bullets pepper the ground around me, though I’m now behind the car.

  The chopper.

  Flopping onto my back, I squeeze off a round in its direction, and a rotor blade explodes, causing it to tilt sharply in the air. I fire again, and it swerves away, disappearing behind the trees in a neighbor’s yard.

  Without pausing, I roll under the vehicle and come out on the other side, facing the three remaining agents.

  Only there are two of them in front of me.

  One is running toward the house.

  29

  Sara

  Everything happens in a flash. One moment, I’m standing behind Peter as the agent is about to cuff him, and the next, there’s a thunderous crack and the man’s helmet explodes, his brains spraying all over as Peter springs into action, snatching the dead’s man’s gun.

  “Sara, get in!” Mom grabs my arm, yanking me backward as deafening gunfire erupts, mixing with the roar of the chopper.

  “No, you go in!” I yell, twisting out of her hold. I can’t leave Peter out here. “Get inside now!”

  “Your baby!” Dad shouts over the noise, grabbing my wrist as I’m about to lunge forward. “You’re pregnant, remember?”

  The reminder is like a bucket of ice water thrown in my face.

  I’d forgotten about the tiny life inside me, the child Peter wants so badly.

  “Get inside, Sara. Now!” Mom yanks on my other wrist, and this time, I obey, stumbling into the house as the street turns into a war zone.

  “We have to… get away… from the windows,” Dad wheezes, bending over in the foyer. “The bullets, they—”

  “It’s okay, Dad. Just breathe.” I grab his elbow as he starts to collapse, but he’s too heavy for me to hold, and I just manage to soften his fall. “Where are your pills?” My voice rises in panic as I see his face turning blue. “Mom, where’s his medication?”

  “The k-kitchen.” She sounds like she’s going into shock. “T-top cabinet on the right.”

  “Okay, be right back.” The living room window explodes as I sprint past it, but I barely register the fragments of glass peppering my skin.

  I have to get Dad’s medicine.

  I can’t think about Peter right now, can’t focus on the toxic terror squeezing my chest.

  He’ll make it.

  He has to.

  Opening the cabinet, I grab Dad’s nitroglycerin pills and a bottle of aspirin, then sprint back as the noise of the chopper fades away and the gunfire stops.

  Mom is kneeling over Dad’s unconscious body, her face a mask of terror as she looks at me. “He’s not breathing. Sara, he’s not breathing.”

  I’m already on my knees, pushing on Dad’s chest as I count under my breath, then bend over to breathe into his mouth.

  His chest rises with the air I give him, then falls and remains unmoving.

  Fighting my growing panic, I begin the chest compressions again.

  One, two, three, four—

  The door flies open, and two wrestling men tumble in.

  A SWAT agent and blood-covered Peter.

  30

  Peter

  I fire before the agents do, squeezing off two rounds that hit them right under their face shields. Fueled by adrenaline, I jump to my feet, only vaguely aware of the burning pain in my arm and calf.

  I have to stop the fleeing agent.

  I can’t let him hole up with Sara and her family inside.

  Putting on a burst of speed, I catch up with him by the entrance and tackle him as he spins around, ready to fire. The weapon clatters across the porch, and we crash into the door, pushing it open by our momentum.

  I only have a split second to take in the scene inside, but it’s enough for me to angle to the right and avoid tumbling onto kneeling Sara and her parents.

  We crash into the couch instead and roll across the floor together, struggling for the Glock tucked into his belt. I land on top of him and yank the weapon out, but he rams his elbow into my injured arm, knocking the gun out of my hand.

  Ignoring the blaze of pain, I snatch his knife and jam it into the gap between his armor. He gasps like a landed fish, and I stab him again, and then twice more.

  His body goes slack underneath me.

  “Peter!” Sara’s voice reaches through the roar of my heartbeat, and I look up, taking in her white, tear-streaked face. She’s pressing on her father’s chest in the unmistakable rhythm of CPR, her mother kneeling next to her.

  I crawl off the dead man and push up to my feet. The room spins around me in a sickening circle, and when I glance down, I see that my right leg is covered with blood—and more blood is dripping down my left arm.

  Of course. The gunshot wounds.

  Pushing away the growing dizziness, I trudge toward Sara and her parents. “What happened? Did he get shot?” I don’t see any blood on Chuck, but—

  Sara shakes her head. “Cardiac arrest.” Bending over, she pinches his nose shut and blows into his mouth, then resumes pushing on his chest.

  Fuck. I take in the pill bottles lying unopened on the floor, and my chest tightens.

  This is it.

  Sara’s worst nightmare.

  And I brought it upon her.

  “You two need to go.” Lorna’s hoarse voice sounds like that of a ghost, and when I glance at her, I see that she resembles one, her face like bleached parchment paper. “Before they send in the—”

  A bullet shatters the wall above us, and I instinctively leap in front of Sara and her mother, covering them with my body.

  My left side explodes in pain, the massive force of the hit throwing me forward as I shove them both behind the couch. My vision flashes white, the pain ricocheting through my nerve endings as another bullet whines by my ear.

  No. Fuck, no.

  With my last remaining strength, I throw myself to the side, drawing the fire of the shooter away from Sara and her mother. Another bullet punches into the floor next to my knee, sending shards of wood flying everywhere, and through a graying vision, I see an armor-clad figure swaying in the doorway, clutching a handgun.

  It’s one of the SWAT agents I shot.

  Dazed and injured but alive.

  His face shield is missing, revealing mottled skin and wild eyes. “Die, you motherfucker,” he hisses, and aiming at my head, he squeezes the trigger.
r />   31

  Sara

  The force of the bullet jolts through Peter’s body as I land painfully on my side, my head banging into the side of the couch.

  Another shot, and a warm, metallic spray hits my face and neck.

  “Peter!” Terrified for him, I scramble to my knees, wiping the blood out of my eyes—and then I see it.

  Mom’s face on the floor.

  Or rather, most of it.

  Part of her cheek and skull is missing, leaving a bloody hole where a cheekbone used to be.

  My mind shuts down, a wall of numbness sliding into place as a third shot rings out.

  I look at my husband, on his back and bleeding, then at the agent in the doorway, his face twisted with hatred as he aims at Peter’s head.

  My gaze falls on the gun that Peter dropped while wrestling with the other agent.

  It’s three feet away.

  I reach for it and pick it up. It’s cold and heavy in my hand, adding to the icy numbness in my heart.

  My parents dead.

  Peter about to be murdered.

  I aim and squeeze the trigger a split second before the agent fires.

  My bullet misses, but the gunshot startles him, causing his shot to go wild.

  He spins toward me, and I fire again.

  It hits him in the middle of his vest, throwing him back.

  Without any hesitation, I walk over to him and lift my gun again.

  “Don’t—” he chokes out, gasping for breath, and I squeeze the trigger.

  His face explodes into bits of blood and bone. It’s like a hyper-realistic video game, complete with smell, taste, and surround sound. Fascinated, I drop the gun and reach out to see if it feels as real—

  “Sara.” Peter’s strained voice reaches me as though through water. “Look at me.”

  Blinking, I focus on his prone body, and some of my numbness dissipates as I see the amount of blood pooling at his side.